


to the victor (the spoils)

by Idday



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Coercion, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Hate Sex, M/M, Painplay, Power Dynamics, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 18:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11926566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: There's more than one reason that Jack wanted to go first.





	to the victor (the spoils)

**Author's Note:**

> First, as always: please do not read if you are/know these people. This is so fictional I cannot even begin to emphasize enough.
> 
> Second, please heed the tags. This is by far the darkest thing I've written (and I think it's half because I'm working on something so far on the other end of the spectrum that all the leftover angst/hate feels bubbled up here), so if this isn't your jam, no hard feelings. More info in the end notes to avoid spoilers.
> 
> I've tried to tag like woah but please feel free to let me know if there's anything that I missed.

It’s disconcerting, how much it looks like every other hotel room Jack’s stayed in on the road, how much it looks like his own, three floors up. There’s the little entry, the bathroom suite, one bed centered on the wall. The same beige wallpaper, the same generic floral artwork.

Of course, judging by the mechanical click of the door behind him, not to mention the grim look on Murray’s face when he handed Jack the key five minutes ago, he’s not getting out of this room before someone comes back for him, two hours from now.

Two hours, because he went second. The irony is not lost on him.

Also, none of the other hotel rooms he’s stayed in had Connor McDavid in them.

This one does.

He’s sitting in the dinky little armchair in the faux sitting room by the window. He’s still wearing the suit he was drafted in. He’s just… staring. He’s not even fucking around on his phone, or pretending to watch TV. His posture is much, much too good. It’s creepy. He might as well be stroking a white cat.  

“Um,” Jack says, because he probably is going to get told off by management if he starts with, _what the fuck?_

McDavid blinks. “You’re allowed to say no,” he says.

Jack laughs, helplessly, hysterically. “Yeah, right,” he says sarcastically. He feels too warm. He wonders if they turned the thermostat up, or something, or if maybe McDavid did. Jack has no idea how long McDavid’s been here.

“You are,” McDavid says, and frowns.

Jack rolls his eyes and steps farther into the room, loosening his tie. He’s going to be here for two hours, no matter if they do this now or talk around it for ten minutes. He figures they might as well get a jump on it. “So, how do you want me?” he asks, “face down, ass up? Am I right?”

McDavid clears his throat. “Uh,” he says.

“Oh, right,” Jack says breezily, kicks off his shoes and his socks. “I forgot. It’s you. So… probably missionary, yeah?”

McDavid stands, then. “Yeah, haha,” he says. Like, he actually says it, _haha,_ like it’s a word. “Because I’m so boring. Funny joke.”

He sounds irritated. Jack laughs again, out loud. He delights in prodding at McDavid, making him lose his media-shiny smile. He’s played hockey against the kid for years—he knows there’s more there than McDavid lets on.

He’s not going to leave this room with much tonight, anyway. Not his pride, and certainly not his dignity. He’s about to lose for the second time today.

He has to take what he can get, even if it’s as petty as making McDavid squirm.

Jack grins, predatory. “You said it,” he says, and unbuttons his shirt.

McDavid’s gaze drops.

Jack doesn’t think about the way his own body looks, much. He thinks a lot about the way it performs, which is pretty damn well. If they’d had this little deal for the winner of the combine, he would have had McDavid at his mercy weeks ago.

He’s thought about it, too. About that, and about what might have happened if the world had turned on its head and he’d gone first this morning. He’d spent a lot of nights in his dorm bed with his hand down his boxers, thinking about that.

He would have had McDavid on his knees, already, choking on his cock. Maybe he would have put him in an Eichel USA jersey and come on his face, or made him hold his own legs back while he fucked him until he cried.

He doesn’t doubt that McDavid’s had a few little fantasies of his own.

“You really think I’m that vanilla,” McDavid says, levelly, and stands. He’s still shorter than Jack. He’s still wearing all his clothes.

Jack fists his button up in his hand, and then drops it. “No,” he drawls, “I think Edmonton has a real wild child on their hands.”

McDavid looks at the floor, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. His shoulders jolt upwards, and he nods, hard, almost to himself.

“On the bed,” he says.

Jack sprawls, gracelessly.  

McDavid strips methodically—suit coat, cufflinks, tie, button down. He folds everything, neatly, and leaves it on the chair. It takes eons. Jack watches every minute. He has to. He’s trapped here, sweating and pulse racing and he fights through it when McDavid looks back over at him, half naked, so that he can paste on an approximation of his normal cocky grin.

“You were right the first time,” McDavid admits. “On your knees, face down.”

Jack turns over, slowly, and crawls up the bed, away from him. “If you turn off the lights you can probably pretend that it’s someone else,” he says over his shoulder.

There are two thuds—the shoes, maybe. The click of a belt and the whir of a zipper. Jack allows himself to close his eyes because McDavid can’t see it, not with the way Jack’s staring up at the headboard and its pristine pile of pillows.

“No,” McDavid says, and the mattress dips when he climbs on behind Jack. “I don’t want to pretend. I want to know it’s you. I want to watch you take it.”

It’s humiliating. Jack curses his fair skin, when he flushes, and then McDavid reaches around him to undo his belt, his zipper. Jack should have just dropped his pants when he was still standing, when he could still do it himself, because it’s worse this way, it turns out. It’s worse that McDavid has control over this, that he’s undressing Jack like a child.

It takes some doing, to get his pants over his knees. Jack makes it a point to be as uncooperative as possible, which helps with the low burn of embarrassment until McDavid puts a hand on the back of his neck and shoves his face into the mattress, says, “I told you, face down.” His voice is still measured. He sounds like he could be giving an interview.

From the sounds of it, McDavid isn’t as careful with Jack’s incredibly expensive suit pants as he’d been with his own. He doesn’t get up to fold them, just drops them in a heap next to the bed.

Jack has to turn his face to the side, finally, to breathe. He wishes he wouldn’t have to. He preferred it when he could hide his face, but as it is, he turns his eyes to the wall, tries to keep his face as blank as possible.

There’s the familiar click of the lube bottle. Jack’s not shocked, that they have it. When Murray handed him the key, he’d said, “Make sure you’re ready for camp in the fall.” His face had been creased with the shame of picking second. Jack had understood it to mean _do whatever McDavid wants so I don’t have to send you down for a year,_ but also, _don’t get yourself injured._

He’s not supposed to come out of this hurt, just humiliated.

McDavid gives him a finger then, without warning. The lube is still cold, and it’s more a shock than anything, the abrupt penetration. McDavid doesn’t laugh when Jack gasps at it, not like Jack probably would in his shoes. He just gives him a second finger, immediately, clinically. The stretch burns, but Jack can take it.

He can take it. McDavid’s fingers slip right in.

“What, did you practice for this?” McDavid asks. He does sound almost amused. Jack wonders what would happen if he reared back, fought him off, kicked him, and then he pictures himself in a Rochester jersey and bites down on the urge. “You knew this would happen, what, a year ago? You had plenty of time.”

“I’m not exactly a virgin,” Jack says. He tries to keep his voice as dry as possible. It’s difficult, with two fingers up his ass, but he tries.

“So you must be ready, then,” McDavid says, and pulls back all at once.

Jack’s too tall for him to reach, like this, because when McDavid surges forward, his wet cock tags Jack on the back of his thigh. He’s torn between laughter and self-preservation and is suddenly glad that he didn’t make a sound when McDavid wraps two hands around his thighs and forces them apart.

He’s flexible enough to take the stretch, but the abruptness is shocking. The inside of his thighs burn and his dick is chafing against the bedspread, suddenly, and then McDavid presses into him without so much as a word. He gets a hand back on Jack’s head, grinds his face back into the bedspread. Jack tries hard not to think about what else has happened on this particular bed, not with his open mouth pressed against it.

McDavid doesn’t give him time to adjust, but it’s not particularly difficult to breathe through. The stretch is sudden, stings a little, but McDavid isn’t exactly sporting a monster prick, not like some of the guys Jack’s been with. Jack can lie here and take it, for as long as he needs to. For as long as it takes for McDavid to shoot off.

The angle’s not quite right, but McDavid’s hand is tight on the back of his neck, and he’s chubbing up a little, anyway, cursing his own body. He doesn’t want to get off on this. He doesn’t want to give McDavid the satisfaction.

The thrusting is steady, a little monotonous. Jack can see the clock, with the one eye that isn’t jammed into the bedspread. The red numbers turn over once, twice.

“Are you gonna come?” McDavid asks.

“Uh…” Jack says, drags out the sound. “No?”

McDavid pulls back, then. Jack thinks—for just a moment—that maybe it’s all over.

And then McDavid grabs his ankles, yanks his legs out from under him and drags him back to the edge of the mattress.

“Ow, what the fuck?” Jack yelps. The friction of the bedspread against him is really not helping with his whole erection issue.

“You’re fine,” McDavid says, “take it.” He plants one foot back on the mattress from where he’s standing, for leverage, dicks back in. It’s harder this time. Jack’s going to have bruises, tomorrow, where McDavid has his hands wrapped around Jack’s hips, but that’s not going to count as an injury, not the way Murray was talking about.

“You’re still not going to come?” McDavid asks, after another minute. He’s breathing harder.

“No,” Jack says neutrally. He’s not breathing hard. Being used like this isn’t exactly strenuous.

“Why not?” McDavid asks, stupidly.

 _Because you can’t make me,_ Jack wants to say. He’s got nothing left; he’s stripped down. He’s got this, though. He can leave, after two hours, and he’ll have let Connor McDavid use him like this but he won’t have given that up. “Well,” Jack says, instead, brattily, “maybe it’s because you’re really not that good at this.”

McDavid slaps him then, hard, right over the swell of his ass. Jack jerks forward and makes a noise that’s a little too close to a moan for his comfort. His cock is heavy, now, dragging on the bedspread with every thrust. It’s too rough, too dry, and he wishes that didn’t do it for him.

“Oh,” McDavid says, and smacks him again on the other cheek. Jack doesn’t make a sound, this time, because he’s got his head buried between his arms, comforter clenched between his teeth. “You wanted me to hit you, Eichel? You could have just said.” There’s another blow, and another, alternating sides. It hurts, it hurts, and he’s so hard.

McDavid comes first, grinds in hard and stays for a moment. Jack’s ass is red enough that McDavid’s hips hurt, where they’re pressed in. When he pulls out, Jack can feel the wet of it, the trickle down his balls. When he tries to pull his legs together, McDavid slaps the tender skin of his inner thigh.

“You’ll come from this, won’t you?” McDavid asks. He’s already come, he shouldn’t be so smug, but he has more leverage like this—has more space to wind up for every hit when he’s not inside Jack, pressed against him. Jack’s cheeks are wet with tears. He can’t un-gag himself with the bedspread for long enough to yell, and he might not even if he could. He feels himself pushing back into the ache and wants to shake himself, take back his control.

“Come on,” McDavid goads. This hit catches the crease of Jack’s thigh, sensitive and tender and already smarting. Jack’s hips thrust forward, convulsively. McDavid sees it, because he reaches around, gets a hand around Jack’s hard cock. “Come on,” he says again, and hits again, frustrated. “You’re so fucking stubborn, Eichel, Jesus. Just come, already.”

His hand clenches around Jack’s dick, too tight, and Jack does come then, helpless. His face is still covered with his own arms.

McDavid has a handful of Jack’s come, and if it were Jack, he would probably wipe it on his back, or something. He doesn’t. He doesn’t touch Jack again.

Jack takes a moment. When he rolls over, his ass aches and the bedspread is abrasive against it, but at least he knows his face is dry, by now. “Happy?” he asks.

McDavid’s at the nightstand, wiping his hand with a tissue. He stares again, for a moment.

“You piss me off,” he says finally. “You piss me off so bad. Nobody else gets me how you do, Eichel, I just don’t… you make me so fucking mad and I don’t even fucking know why.”

Jack laughs, like he doesn’t care. He does, of course. It makes him warm inside.

“Well,” he says, “you’re not used to it. All of Canada is down on its knees for you. You don’t even know what to do with yourself, when someone doesn’t adore you.”

McDavid drops the tissue. He’s not a stellar physical specimen, or anything, nothing special, but this is the first time that Jack’s seen him naked in anything other than a locker room context. His hand is red from beating the shit out of Jack’s ass and his voice is deep and irritated and neither of those things should turn Jack on.

They both do.

“You think about that a lot?” McDavid says finally, “People down on their knees for me?”

He can give as good as he gets, when his publicist isn’t around. Jack shouldn’t like that, either.

“I think about you down on your knees, a lot,” Jack acknowledges. “At least I’d know what to do with you, when I got you there.”

“If,” McDavid corrects. He’s back in front of Jack, and Jack stands, mostly to exert whatever dominance his extra inch gets him. “If you got me there. I guess you should have worked harder, right? If you wanted that. You should have been good enough to go first.”

Jack breathes, deeply. “Is that what you’re gonna tell people, when they ask about today?” He says, and ignores the jibe. At least, he tries. “That I didn’t want it enough? Or maybe you’re just worried that I didn’t want you, enough, that I didn’t beg for you. That you had to force me.”

His hair isn’t long enough for McDavid to get a good grip on it, but he tries, God, does he try.

Jack’s scalp stings, and it sends a shudder down his spine. His knees buckle, but he can pretend that he falls because McDavid is pressing him down with all the strength he possesses. It’s less than Jack’s, but it’s enough. Christ, it’s enough.

The carpet does nothing to pad his fall. His knees burn, his ass smarts. He cuts his fingernails into the palm of his hand, an effort not to get hard again, but the shock of pain almost makes it worse.

“People aren’t going to ask,” McDavid says.

For the first time all night, Jack feels a spike of fear. There are a thousand guys in this league, and they’re all going to ask what went down, what McDavid made him do, how well he took it. That’s bad enough.

“Like hell they aren’t,” Jack says, “You’re getting a call from my GM tomorrow, I’d bet you anything. You gonna tell him I flaked out on you? I pegged you as a lot of things, but not as a liar.”

“Why would he care?” McDavid asks. “This isn’t about him.”

“This is exactly about him,” Jack says, in what he hopes is an even voice. “He’s gonna call and ask you if I delivered, and if you say no, I’m stuck in the A next year. You think they do this for fun? Come on, McDavid. Use your head.”

McDavid lets him go, abruptly.

“Are you oblivious, or just as dumb as you seem?” Jack presses on. “You got drafted, free and clear. That’s what going first gets you. This is my audition for the show.”

McDavid’s pacing and it looks ridiculous because he’s stark naked and Jack can’t even laugh. He’s petrified.   

“They wouldn’t even let you stay down at BU?” McDavid asks. Jack shrugs. He doesn’t know the rules. It’s not what he wants to hear, anyway. It’s not the right question.

“Maybe if you said I gave you a blowie,” he says. The joke falls flat.

McDavid stalks back over to him. Jack’s already on his knees.

“Well, I guess you’d better give me a blowie then, eh?”

Jack lets his gaze drop, deliberately. He’s still shaking. He’s not just going to have to let McDavid fuck him, he realizes now. He’s going to have to convince him not to lie about it, too.

Which means he probably shouldn’t taunt him.

Still.

“You’re not even hard,” Jack says.

McDavid takes him again by the hair, strokes his other hand almost tenderly down the side of Jack’s face. His thumb rests at the hinge of his jaw, and then, suddenly, digs in.

Jack’s mouth waters. He opens his mouth, instinctively, and hopes the sardonic quirk of his eyebrows saves it.

“Then fucking get me there,” McDavid says, and thrusts in, and he’s not hard, yet, not all the way, but he’s getting there fast. Jack suckles at his half-soft cock a little cruelly.

“Yeah,” McDavid says, and then he says, “breathe,” and pulls Jack into him, mashes his nose into McDavid’s flat stomach hard enough that it stings a little and keeps him there until his cock fills Jack’s mouth, his throat. He chokes, a little, when McDavid grinds in unexpectedly.

“I told you to breathe,” McDavid says patiently, and he actually pulls Jack off by the hair. Jack bristles, catches his breath.

When he can control it—when he can anticipate it—he’s good at this. He _can_ breathe, like this. He shouldn’t want to prove it, but when he opens his throat for McDavid again, when he presses his nose back into McDavid’s abs, he hopes the rest of his face says, _see?_

“Yeah, you like this, don’t you?” McDavid asks. “You’ve clearly had plenty of practice. How you doing down there?”

He pulls Jack off him, again by the hair. It’s getting old, except that—unfortunately—it’s not.

“What, good Catholic boy like me?” Jack says. His voice is rough. “I’ve been down on my knees before.”

McDavid looks at him for a moment, then shakes him like a puppy by the back of his neck and says, “yeah, and somehow I’d bet that’s not just in church.”

He lets go, leaves to walk to the head of the bed. When he comes back, he drops a pillow in front of himself. He gestures at it when Jack apparently doesn’t take the hint fast enough.

“I want to kick your ass up and down the ice next year because I’m better than you,” McDavid says, “not because you fucked up your knees. Get on.”

He shoves his cock back down Jack’s throat once he knee walks himself onto the cushion. Jack’s eyes water with it, not for the first time, and he covers it up by shrugging, exaggeratedly, _what can you do?_

McDavid doesn’t take much longer, not with the way he’s fucking in. Jack drifts on it, mostly, trying to avoid getting hard again. He’d rather not suffer through that experience a second time. When McDavid comes down his throat, he can’t even taste it. He doesn’t have a choice but to swallow.

McDavid lets him go, then. He looks for a long moment, then walks off to the bathroom.

Jack’s lips feel swollen, his throat raw. His ass is still smarting when he sits back, grinds his own heels against it, and he’s wet with McDavid’s come. A lot of him wants to stay on the floor, kneeling, but that’s a humiliating prospect, too, and eventually he drags himself up to sit on the bed.

He’s back to himself, mostly, by the time McDavid comes back out. He’s still angry: that he’s here, that he’s doing this, that he got off on it. He still wants to make McDavid hurt, too.

“So I guess Strome doesn’t know you very well,” Jack says. McDavid stops in his tracks. Jack wonders how much of McDavid wanted it to be Dylan Strome here, instead of Jack. He would have been gentler with Strome, probably. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t gentle, after all.

“What is that supposed to mean,” McDavid says, finally.

Jack shrugs. He hopes he looks carefree. He feels, mostly, very well used. He also hopes that McDavid can’t tell that he’s aching, or at least, can’t tell that he’s not as ambivalent as he’s playing at being. “Well,” he says, and looks down at his hands, which is awkward because they’re folded in his naked lap where he’s still just the wrong side of hard, “he told me that you’d be a good guy about this.”

He had, too. He’d pulled Jack aside on that stupid fucking boat and he’d said, carefully, “about the Draft Day.”

Guys aren’t supposed to know about the Draft Day, but they all do.  Or rather—guys aren’t supposed to know anything besides the fact that the first two picks have a meeting together, post draft. Everyone knows that. Jack’s parents know that—that’s where they think he is, right now.

But all the guys, they know what really happens. It’s a badly kept secret, but it’s a secret nonetheless. Sam Reinhart had texted Jack after the lottery— _Don’t worry_ , _it’s not as bad as they all say._ He’d gone second, too. Jack had taken his word for it.

But Sam Reinhart hadn’t gone after Connor McDavid. He hadn’t gone this year, in this draft, after everything this rivalry was supposed to become. If he asks, though, Jack will say it back. _Yeah, it wasn’t that bad._

McDavid’s still staring at him. “Don’t talk about Stromer,” he says, finally.

Jack shrugs. “That’s what he said. He said, ‘Davo’s a nice guy. He’ll be good to you. He’ll be a good guy about this.’”

“Don’t,” McDavid says again. “Don’t make this worse. I have to live with this too, you know.”

Jack snorts. “Sure, it’s all about you,” he says. “How could I have forgotten? I’m sorry you had to do this, McDavid. I’m sorry it was so hard for you. Poor, put upon Connor McDavid. Haven’t you heard? Noble enough to plow Eichel for the good of the game. Boy, he really took one for hockey, didn’t he?”

“Don’t.”

“Is that what they told you? It’s for the good of the sport?” McDavid folds in on himself. If he was still wearing his pants, his hands would be in his pocket. He’s uncomfortable again. Jack relishes it. “No, that wasn’t it. They probably told you to relax, to enjoy it. Hey, you earned it, right? That’s not what they told me. You wanna know what they told me?  They told me it was about learning to lose graciously, about taking my lumps like a man. They told me that it was so that when we lost, they knew I wouldn’t embarrass them out there, that I could be humble and shake a winner’s hand. They told me to prove to them I deserved a shot at the NHL this year. If I wanted it easy, I should have worked hard enough to go first.”

McDavid swallows. “I didn’t know,” he says.

“Well, that’s my bad, too. I should have known, right?” Jack asks, “I should have known they would have wanted to keep that from you. All that… unpleasantness. Why worry you?”

He’s in front of Jack again. They’re both still naked. The clock still has time on it.

“I hope you know,” McDavid says. “If Murray calls me, if someone else asks. I’ll tell them that you did… that you were good, for me. I would have, even before.”

“Oh, that’s very big of you,” Jack says. He burns, he burns. “What a nice thing to say, after you’ve already fucked me. Twice.”

McDavid shrugs. He’s not as unconcerned as he’s trying to appear, Jack doesn’t think. He’s soft as baby shit, can’t handle that he might have made someone cry for real. Can’t handle that he might not be a hero, in this room, not after what he did. “I told you, first thing, you could have said no.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack says, “and then you fucked my ass. Very mixed messages.”

McDavid’s eyes are dark. “So say ‘no,’ now, if you want. Otherwise…” he gestures at Jack’s lap. He’s hard again, or well on his way. Jack pretends not to blush, doesn’t want to give up any of his newfound high ground.

He doesn’t say no.

McDavid strokes his cock, much too gently. “How do you get off, by yourself? Can you even come, without someone hurting you?”

Jack does flush then. “Fuck off,” he scoffs. “I can come.”

“But you’d prefer it the other way, right?” McDavid asks. “You got so hard before, when I hit you.” He drops to his knees, but not before he yanks Jack to the edge of the bed by his ankles again. This time, it’s his ass that catches on the covers, that burns with it. He falls backwards, hisses through his teeth.

“You’re going to bruise, tomorrow,” McDavid muses. “I bet you’ll like that, though.”

He leans forward, breath teasing at the head of Jack’s cock. His hands are back on Jack’s ass, but gentle this time, and it’s not enough. Jack wants; his hips thrust up, a little helplessly.

McDavid pauses for a moment, and then he bites, hard, just on the inside of Jack’s thigh where he’s tender and pale, just at the edge of one of McDavid’s stinging handprints from earlier. Jack yells, too loud, and then relaxes into it.

“I bet nobody even told you congratulations earlier, did they,” McDavid says, and bites again, the other thigh this time, just as hard. He doesn’t break skin, but Jack’s going to be shocked if he doesn’t have teeth-shaped bruises tomorrow. He fumbles down for McDavid’s head and gets a hard smack on the wrist for it. He holds his own hands together above his head, unprompted. McDavid laughs at him.

“Nobody told you that you earned this, too. Nobody told you that you deserve it.”

He sucks, hard and sudden, around the head of Jack’s cock. It’s good, the warm, wet pressure, and it gets suddenly better when McDavid digs his fingertips, his nails, into Jack’s tender ass, right at the crease of his thighs.

“Oh, Christ,” Jack chokes.

McDavid doesn’t let up. He digs in, relentless, and says, “Come on, Jack. You earned this,” and then he sucks again at Jack’s dick, almost hard enough to hurt where he’s oversensitive, and that’s it. Jack comes, bites into his wrist so he doesn’t say anything embarrassing, and lets it wash over him.

McDavid pulls back, then. He has come on his lip. Jack doesn’t feel as vindicated as he expected to. By the time Jack collects himself, sits up, McDavid already has his pants back on.

Jack catches his eye, and McDavid bites his lip. “Are you going to be okay?” McDavid asks. “I’ve never… I should have asked.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, McDavid, calm down. You don’t think I could have fought you off, if I wanted?”

McDavid takes his time, putting his shirt back on. “But you didn’t. Want this, I mean. Not really.”

“I want the NHL,” Jack says. “That’s the same thing.”

McDavid nods, looks away and fishes for something in his pants pocket. “Here,” he says, and holds his phone out to Jack. “Will you give me your number?”

Jack snorts. “Do you need it?” he asks. “There’s no future here. I don’t exactly want to cuddle you or have you spend the night. In fact, I’m not particularly interested in speaking to you again.” He might be happy to never see him again, at all, but that’s not going to happen, so.

McDavid doesn’t waver. The phone is still out in midair. “I’d like to text you, if you’d let me. It would make me feel better.”

It’s ugly, the way that washes through Jack. He wasn’t exactly feeling charitable to begin with, even post orgasm, and McDavid keeps making it worse. “Right,” he says. “And this is all to make you feel better. Of course.”

The phone is still hovering. Jack’s still naked. “Somehow I get the impression that these people aren’t really going to care how you’re doing in a few days,” McDavid says. “Somehow I also get the impression that you probably wouldn’t say anything, anyway. So. I’d like to be able to check that you’re okay. I was rough with you, probably too rough, and I didn’t ask first. Even if you tell me to fuck off… at least I’d know you’re back to normal.”

Jack takes the phone. He types in his number—his real number, too.

“If you text and ask if I’m okay,” he says, “then I’m definitely telling you to fuck off.”

The clock turns over again. There’s only a few minutes left. Jack wonders if they’re going to come and get him, or if he’ll just be able to leave when he tries the door. He should put his clothes back on, probably, either way. McDavid’s seen enough for one night.

“I hope you know,” McDavid says, when Jack pulls his boxers back up, “I still don’t like you. You’re cocky and you’re smug and you still piss me off. Just because I want you to be okay… that doesn’t change anything else.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and redoes his belt. _Duh, McDavid. Were you looking for a boyfriend? Better find someone who isn’t forced to go down for you, then, next time._ “Believe me. The feeling is entirely mutual.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dub con: though it is stated that either character could say 'no,' they face extreme pressure to have sex. This is basically a rif off the 'winner's choice' idea, so in this 'verse, the first and second draft pick are locked in a room for a 'meeting' post draft which is widely understood to require the second pick to submit themselves sexually to the first. Both parties--especially the second pick (in this case, Jack) understand themselves to be required (via league expectation and pressure) to comply with having sex, no matter what they personally feel.
> 
> Coercion: In my mind, more on the part of the league/GMs than either player, but Jack is threatened with having his career ruined/postponed if he refuses to comply with whatever Connor asks of him, sexually. Connor is initially unaware of this.
> 
> Power dynamics, etc: Connor is understood to be sexually dominant based off the fact that he was selected first. He doesn't ask permission or negotiate in any way the rough sex he performs, including spanking. He also makes Jack come after Jack says out loud that he doesn't want to. Jack briefly has fantasies of what he might do to Connor if he was in the dominant position.
> 
> Again, please let me know if I should tag or explain better. Comments and kudos are always deeply appreciated!


End file.
